The Calm Before the Storm
by kellyofsmeg
Summary: October 31, 1983: the Winchester's first and last Halloween all together as a family. Bittersweet, plenty of foreshadowing, but also lots of fluff to lighten the mood.


**The Calm Before the Storm**

**by kellyofsmeg**

**Summary: October 31, 1983: the Winchester's first and last Halloween all together as a family. Bittersweet, plenty of foreshadowing, but also lots of fluff to lighten the mood. **

**Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine.**

...

_Halloween 1983_

_Lawrence, Kansas_

"Mommy—Daddy! C'mon, let's go!" four-year-old Dean Winchester shouted as he planted both his feet vertically on the front door, hanging off the doorknob and pulling with all his might to open it. His socks slipped and he slid down the door, legs splayed on the ground, still clinging to the doorknob. Despite having unlocked the front door, his attempts to escape out onto the street with the other trick or treaters was futile with the deadbolt still in place, well out of his reach. "We're gonna miss all the candy!" Dean called pathetically from a heap on the floor, having finally let go of the doorknob, considering going into the dining room to get a chair so he could reach the deadbolt.

"Relax, Dean. The night's still young," said his father, emerging from the kitchen and eating the last bite of crust from the meat lover's pizza they had picked up for dinner. He wasn't at all surprised to see Dean sulking by the door. "You'll have more candy than you'll know what to do with."

"But Daddy, I've been ready to go for _forever," _said Dean dramatically, picking himself up off the floor.

"What're you talking about? You haven't even got your boots on yet," John brushed his hands off on his jeans, crouched down, and helped Dean into his black rubber boots. "_Now_ you're ready." He stood up and appraised his son, dressed in a red and yellow striped fireman's costume and gloves, complete with red plastic helmet and mini plastic fire ax. "Looking good, Dean-o. All you're missing is your dalmatian."

"There he is!" said Dean, pointing. John turned around to see his wife coming down the stairs, holding their five month old son, Sam, transformed from an infant into a fireman's best friend. He was wearing a one-piece fuzzy white jumper with black spots, complete with a tail and a hood with floppy dog ears. The tip of Sam's nose was painted black, and he had a thin strip of red felt with Velcro loosely hung around his neck for a collar. Dean was beside himself, laughing delightedly at Sam's disguise, reaching up and wagging his tail.

"...Wow," said John, who hadn't seen Sam in his costume until now. Mary had been doing the finishing touches that morning when he left for work. "You really outdid yourself, babe. I can't believe you _made_ that!"

"Well," said Mary, shrugging modestly. "It's Sammy's first Halloween. I wanted it to be special."

"You did a great job, honey," said John, tilting his head down and kissing his wife. "We ready to go?"

"No—wait!" said Mary, handing Sam off to John and running into the adjoining living room, returning with their Polaroid camera. "I've got to get a picture of the boys together."

"Good idea," said John, juggling Sam. "How do we want to do this—with Dean holding Sammy, or with Sammy on the ground and Dean next to him—"

"I'll hold him," Dean eagerly volunteered, lifting up his arms.

"Alright, buddy. Hold onto him tight," said John, lowering the infant into Dean's outstretched arms. Dean carefully grabbed hold of his little brother, with John keeping a precautionary hand on Sam's middle until Dean had his baby brother secured and facing the camera. John hovered nearby, just in case Sam slipped against the slippery fabric of Dean's fireman's costume.

Mary was poised and ready to snap the picture. "Alright, boys—smile!" Dean beamed at the camera as Sam turned his head at the last second, looking up in bewilderment at his big brother's costume. He reached out and touched the bill of Dean's fireman's helmet, yanking it down over Dean's eyes just as the flash went off.

"_Sammy!" _Dean cried in exasperation, seeing nothing but the red interior of his helmet, unable to fix it with his arms full. John reached down and righted his helmet, chuckling appreciatively. "Nice one, Sammy."

"Alright, that was our practice picture. Let's do one more," Mary laughed as she raised her camera again, handing the developing Polaroid to John. "Sammy—over here! Look at Mommy."

Sam looked up at the sound of his mother's voice, and the second both boys were facing forward, Mary snapped the picture. Chuckling, John held out the first developing photograph to Mary as the image started to take shape. "That one's a keeper."

"Lemme see!" Dean exclaimed, crowding in beside them and standing on tiptoe. Mary lifted Sam from Dean's arms as John showed Dean the now mostly developed Polaroid. Dean completely lost it in a fit of giggles at seeing himself with his helmet pulled down halfway over his face, and Sam looking far too pleased with himself. Mary set the camera and developing Polaroids on the end table, wrapped Sam up in a fleece blanket and gave him his red pacifier, attached to the zipper on his fuzzy jumpsuit by a length of ribbon.

"Ready to go, sport?" said John, opening the closet and pulling out Sam's fold-up stroller.

"Yeah!" Dean exclaimed, picking up his plastic jack-o-lantern candy bucket and tucking his fire ax under his arm. He lifted up an identical basket. "Here's yours, Sammy."

Sam reached out a finger to touch the candy basket, but Mary took it from Dean and slid it to hang over her elbow. "Thanks, sweetie. I'll carry it for him."

"Wait," said Dean, as John slid back the deadbolt.

"What's wrong, Dean? I thought you were raring to go," said John.

Dean looked up at his parents, spotting that something was wrong. "Aren't you guys going to wear costumes?"

"What're you talking about, kiddo?" said John, unzipping his leather jacket enough for Dean to see his USMC t-shirt. "I'm going as a United States Marine—the scariest thing you'll see out there tonight. All those witches and vampires and ghosts are gonna run the other way when they see me coming."

Impressed with his Dad's answer, Dean looked to Mary. "Mommy, what are you going as?"

"The wife of a Marine and the very confused mother of one dalmatian and a fireman," said Mary, putting on her best bewildered expression.

Dean considered his mother's response, a slow smile creeping over his face, signifying that he found her answer to be satisfactory. "Okay," he said brightly, "Let's go!"

John yanked open the front door and Dean ran down the steps and out onto the lawn, swinging his fire ax every which way. "Don't go out on the street without us, Dean!" Mary called, walking down the front steps with Sam perched on her hip as Dean teetered on the curb. John pushed the stroller out onto the porch and locked up the house, going to join his family at the end of the driveway.

"Do you wanna put Sammy in the stroller now or—?"

"No, I'm fine carrying him," said Mary, her breath coming out in a plume of white steam as she spoke. She used the back of her hand to feel Sam's round cheek, which was still warm. "Brrr...it's cold out tonight. Are you warm enough, Dean?"

"Uh-huh," said Dean distractedly, hacking at invisible enemies with his fire ax.

John came up behind Mary, putting his hands on either side of her forearms, rubbing them up and down to generate heat. "C'mon, honey, you'll warm up once we get moving," he said, kissing her on the cheek before pushing the stroller over the edge of the curb.

They started with their neighbors to the west—the Haversons, a retired elderly couple who were friendly but mostly kept to themselves, though they always brought over a plate of iced sugar cookies around the holidays. Dean raced to the front door and was surprised when he looked over his shoulder to see his family were still making their way up the cobblestone path. "C'mon!" Dean cried excitedly to the slow pokes.

The second his family had joined him on the porch, Dean raised his fist and knocked three times on the door. He waited, pressing his ear to the wood. When no one answered, Dean raised his fire ax as if planning on busting the door down to get his candy. John reached out and caught the plastic handle in mid-swing, just as the front door opened, revealing Mrs. Haverson standing there with a glass bowl of assorted candies.

"Trick or treat!" Dean exclaimed, arms still frozen in swinging position. John released his hold and Dean sheepishly lowered the ax to his side, holding out his candy bucket expectantly. The elderly woman dropped two chocolates into Dean's bucket, where they made soft thumps against the empty plastic bottom. "And my little brother, too!"

There was a twinkle in Mrs. Haverson's eye when she saw Sam's costume, depositing two more pieces of candy in his empty bucket. "My, aren't you boys adorable!" She exclaimed.

Mr. Haverson emerged beside his wife, smiling widely at the Winchesters. "You have a beautiful family," he complimented, looking at John.

"Thank you, kindly," John put his arm around Mary and Sam, placing his hand on Dean's shoulder and said proudly, "I'm a lucky man."

Mary blushed and gave Dean a slight nudge. "Oh—thank you for the candy, Mr. and Mrs. Haverson!" said Dean sweetly, remembering his manners. The Haversons bid them a Happy Halloween, and went to return to the couch before the next batch of trick-or-treaters showed up.

Dean plunged his hand into his bucket before they even reached the street, fingers clawing the bottom for his two errant pieces of candy. "Dean," John lightly reprimanded, "What did we say about the candy?"

Dean sighed, drawing his hand back out of the jack-o-lantern. "No eating candy till we get home."

"That's right," said John, who always sorted through the sweets first to pick out any suspicious-looking or hard candies, which Dean always either inhaled or nearly broke his teeth on. It was always a trick in itself to get Dean to pace himself with his candy consumption, forcing his parents to ration out the candy so he wouldn't make himself sick. If Dean had it his way, he'd eat his candy as he went, until he got the mother of all belly aches.

Dean and Sam trick-or-treated on both sides of their street, where friends and neighbors all greeted them warmly, and remarked on how cute the boy's themed costumes were. At one house on the next block, Mary's good friend Julie commented to Dean, "A bucket full of candy and a puppy for a little brother. What more could you possibly ask for, Dean?" to which Dean had rambled off everything he wanted for Christmas while Julie listened patiently, until Dean finally concluded with, "—and a robot with laser eyes!" Julie had laughed, gave Sam and Dean each an extra piece of candy and sent them on their way.

In front of one house, Dean paused on the way to the door to stare at a scarecrow posted in the middle of the yard amongst plastic tomb stones strung with fake spider webs. Dean looked at the scarecrow's stitched burlap face with wide eyes, as if afraid it would come to life at any moment. Dean took a step back from the lawn ornament, hurrying back to Mary's side. Trying to look like the scarecrow hadn't spooked him, Dean asked, "How come we never went to the corn maze like you said we would, Mommy?"

"Because all the corn mazes had to close this year, sweetie," said Mary gently. "I guess it just wasn't a good year to grow corn. We had too drive a long way to get our pumpkins, too, remember?"

"I've never seen crop failure like this year," said John, frowning. "It had to be those couple of freakishly cold days we had that did it."

"Oh," Dean said softly, still feeling like he'd missed out; a corn maze had sounded like fun. But Dean didn't dwell on his missed experience, remembering that there was more candy to be reaped behind the next door.

Dean and Sam collected their goods and returned to the sidewalk with their parents. Three teenage boys were slouching along behind them, all of them at least five years too old to be trick-or-treating. They were dressed as Freddie, Jason, and Uncle Fester respectively, each carrying a pillow case bulging with candy. They were talking loudly as they approached, and the Winchester family had no choice but to listen to the middle of their raucous conversation.

"—dude, I'm telling you, it was _sick. _On the side of the road, totally mutilated—I swear man, I've never seen anything like it. I could barely even tell it had been a cow. Its guts were everywhere, flies and maggots crawling all over...you know how they get all bloated and it was just rancid, man..." Jason said, sounding like he had relished the experience.

"Stunk like nobody's business," Freddie added.

"Did you poke it with a stick?" Uncle Fester asked.

John and Mary each looked over their shoulders in alarm at what they had heard. Dean's eyes were wide as saucers, and Mary placed her hand on his shoulder as John motioned looked both ways and motioned for them to cross the street. Mary grabbed Dean's hand they hurried across the street to the opposite sidewalk, eager to put as much distance between her children and the teen's morbid conversations as she could. John trailed behind, mildly curious about what the teenagers were talking about; it sounded like a cow-tipping adventure gone wrong. But they lost him at the bit about rotten eggs and he hurried to rejoin his family. "Mommy, what were those guys talking about?" Dean asked as they stepped over the curb, John lifting up the front wheels of the stroller to mount the sidewalk.

"Nothing, honey. Probably just some movie," said Mary, desperately looking around for something to take Dean's mind off the conversation they'd unintentionally eavesdropped on. "Here, honey. Go to that house. There's a big group of kids going up to the door right now."

"Okay," said Dean brightly, leading the way.

"Mary, do you want me to take Sammy?" John asked considerately.

"Oh no, that's okay," Mary declined the offer as they turned up the driveway. "I've got him."

"Oh come on—you get to hold him all day. It's my turn," John said, a humorous note of pleading in his voice. Mary stopped and stared at him, a playful smirk on her lips—was John Winchester actually _whining?_

"Fine," Mary sighed dramatically, lifting up the bundled-up dalmatian and passing him off to his smiling father, bouncing the boy on his arm. "And for the record, I don't just get to sit around and hold the baby all day while you're at work. I cook, clean, do laundry, run errands, change diapers, chase after Dean..."

"I know," said John, leaning down to kiss his wife. "And I don't know how you do it all. You're amazing. I can't even imagine getting all that done _and_ watching the boys on my own."

"Luckily you'll never have to," Mary smiled, kissed Sam on the cheek and took the reins on the stroller, joining Dean at the door, where he was in-between Mario and a ninja, trying to fight his way to the candy bowl.

"I got a whole Snickers bar!" Dean exclaimed, emerging triumphant from the gaggle of squabbling children. "_And_ it was the last one!"

"Way to go, kiddo," said John, holding up his palm. Dean jumped in the air and high-fived his Dad. "And I got these for Sammy," he said, dropping three fun-size chocolates into Sam's bucket, now occupying Sam's usual space in the stroller. "How's Sam gonna eat his candy, anyway? He's got no teeth."

"Don't worry, Dean. I doubt the candy will go to waste," said John, exchanging a knowing look with Mary, who was infamous for her sweet tooth. Sam would still get his candy in a roundabout way, and if John was lucky, Mary would spare a few pieces of candy for him, too, and he knew he was sure to be granted anything with coconut in it.

At that moment, a family dressed as Frankenstein's monster, his bride, and undead daughter passed by them on the sidewalk. The makeup, stitches down the side of their faces and bolts in their neck looked to be professionally done and were so lifelike that it made Dean cling to Mary's side and ask, "Mommy, are there any real monsters?"

Mary swallowed and answered quickly and with a reassuring smile, "No, of course not, sweetie."

"Remember what we talked about when you thought there was a monster under your bed, kiddo?" said John gently, recognizing that Dean had been spooked by the disturbingly realistic family dressed as pop culture's most famous reanimated corpses. "Monsters are only real in movies. Even then, they're either props or people in makeup. Just like the people you just saw."

"Oh," said Dean, giving a small laugh as relief flooded over him, pushing his fears to the back of his mind. He felt much braver being outside at night with his Mom, Dad, and baby brother than alone in his own room in the dark—like even if monsters _were _real, nothing would be able to get him with his parents around.

Dean was a real trooper. He was so determined in his quest for candy that he wanted to walk a whole block further than John and Mary had anticipated. His bucket of candy was almost filled to the brim and Sam was beginning to fuss when John checked his watch and said, "This is the last house, buddy. Then we have to head back home."

"Ohhh," Dean groaned. "Can we please do just a few more houses, Dad?"

"No, Dean. It's almost time to get ready for bed," said Mary firmly, knowing if she consented, 'a few more houses' could become a whole street and then some.

"Okay," said Dean, hanging his head and dragging his feet as he went up to the door, casting a sad look meant to induce guilt over his shoulder at his parents as he raised his fist and knocked three times. "Trick or treat!" Dean chanted with renewed vigor as the door opened.

"Oh well, look at you," said the middle-aged woman who answered the door, giving Dean a Milky Way and some Tootsie Rolls. "Do you want to be a fireman when you grow up?"

"Uh-huh!" said Dean, nodding his head vigorously. "So I can drive a fire truck with the lights and the—" Dean opened his mouth wide and did a fair impression of a siren, "—sounds and get to use a big hose and put out the fire and save people from burning buildings!" The woman told Dean she thought he'd make a great fireman one day. Dean thanked her and the Winchesters headed back to the sidewalk.

"That's great you wanna be a fireman, buddy," John smiled, "But when you're off playing hero, who's gonna help me work on cars at the garage?"

"I wanna do that, too..." said Dean, weighing his options before coming to a decision. "I can do both." John chuckled, resting his hand on top of Dean's helmet and steering him around the corner. "I can live with that. C'mon, kiddo. Let's go home."

Halfway down the street, they saw a flash of lightning illuminate up the horizon—a clear bolt standing out white and blue against the dark sky. "Wow—_awesome!" _Dean exclaimed. A few seconds later the rumble of thunder cracked through the air and startled Dean, who immediately clung to John's leg as Sam began to cry against his shoulder. More lightning bolts struck, igniting the sky, as more thunderheads rolled in on a heavy gust of northern wind over the mostly clear night sky. Moments later, they began bucketing down rain in a sudden freak storm.

"Have you ever seen a storm hit that fast?" John exclaimed, strapping a screaming, frightened Sam into his stroller and putting up the bonnet to help keep the lashing rain off him, tucking the blanket up to his chin.

"I don't remember seeing another storm in the forecast," said Mary, bending forward to coax Sam into taking his pacifier again. "We've got to get the boys home."

"Agreed," said John, lifting Dean up. Luckily for Dean his costume was made of largely water-resistant fabric, and raindrops flowed off his coat and helmet and onto John's jacket. Trick-or-treaters and their parents were fleeing home in every direction, desperate to get out of the sudden downpour. Some kids seemed thrilled by the flashes of lightning and booms of thunder, splashing in forming puddles and soaking their costumes, while others were crying in distress and holding tight to their parents.

By the time they got home and had closed the storm out as the front door swung shut, Mary and John were both thoroughly soaked from jogging through the rain. The boys had fared slightly better, thanks to Dean's water-resistant costume and Sam's fuzzy blanket and costume absorbing most of the rain. Both boys were still chilled from the late October night and unexpected storm, and their parents instantly went about trying to warm them up. John went for towels to mop up the wet floor while Mary helped the boys out of their costumes, put Sam's sodden blanket and costume in the wash and hung Dean's up to dry. Sam and Dean both had been wearing a second set of clothes under the costumes that were still dry. John and Mary, however, both rooted through the clean laundry bin for dry clothes, and broke the record for two people changing clothes in close quarters, hurrying for fear of Dean getting into the candy without supervision.

As Mary went to get Sam out of his bouncy seat, John went to the front door, poking his head outside, amazed to see the storm had let up. The clouds were still hanging overhead, but it had been minutes since he'd seen lightning or heard thunder, and the rain had let up as well.

"Hey, buddy," said John, going into the living room just in time to see Dean dump his whole bucket of candy out over the coffee table. He picked a blanket up off the couch and wrapped it around Dean's shoulders, figuring his son must be chilled from being out in the stormy late October night. "Wow—good haul this year."

"Uh-huh," Dean agreed, spreading the candy out in one layer across the coffee table for John's inspection. "Does it all look good, Daddy?"

"Let's see," John knelt beside Dean, sorting through the candy for anything with a tear in the wrapper or any hard candies, figuring it never hurt to be a bit paranoid. Having purged the Halloween candy of anything suspicious or potentially harmful, John said, "There you go, Dean. Have at it."

"Wait, Dad—you missed something!" said Dean, reaching out and picking up a gray lump amongst his takings. "Hey—I got a rock!" Dean held out the stone in his hand, and suddenly his face lit up as he got the joke. "Just like Charlie Brown! I don't remember getting a..." Dean saw John snickering quietly. "_Daddy!"_

"What? Don't look at me," said John, feigning innocence as he put on a poker face. Dean crossed his arms and stared at him from beneath his eyebrows. "Fine. You got me," John owned up, proud of his son for remembering the reference from the timeless _Peanuts _Halloween classic.

Grinning triumphantly, Dean plunged his hands into the candy, grabbing fistfuls of sweets with both hands as Mary walked by with Sam cradled against her shoulder and said, "You can have two pieces tonight, Dean."

Dean considered his candy carefully, picking out the two full-sized candy bars he had received. "These ones!"

"I think your Mom meant two _normal _sized candies, Dean," John chuckled. "But nice try."

Dean momentarily pouted, before picking out a mini Milky-Way and packet of his favorite, peanut M&M's. Dean tore open the chocolates and ate them with relish. In the adjoining kitchen, Mary looked up and smiled as she ran the kitchen sink, testing the water with one hand and holding a now bare-skinned Sam, all ready for his bath.

"Uh-oh," said John to Dean. "Looks like it's bath night, Dean-o."

"Not for me," said Dean brightly. "I already had my bath!"

"Is that so?" said John suspiciously, looking to Mary to see if it was true or if Dean was trying to pull a fast one to get out of another confrontation with soap.

"That's right," said Mary, setting Sam gently in the plastic baby bath. "In fact, Dean had_ two_ baths today. One of them was a mud bath in the backyard, which made the second bath necessary."

John raised his eyebrows, turning to look at Dean, who seemed far too pleased with himself. "So all these years you've fought bath time, all we had to do was throw you in with some earthworms instead of rubber ducks and you'd be cool with it?" Dean gave his father the special smile he reserved especially for him when he thought he was being ridiculous.

Chocolate smeared on his face, Dean slid some of his candy across the table and said, "You can have some candy, too, Daddy."

"No, buddy," said John, pushing the candy back at Dean. "It's your candy."

"But I want you to have some," Dean happily insisted, licking his chocolate-coated fingers.

"Well, twist my arm. I guess there's no need to enforce the candy tax with you," John laughed, picking up a pack of Whoppers, knowing Dean didn't particularly care for them. "Thanks, kiddo."

"You're welcome," said Dean pleasantly, smiling with all his teeth and reminding John that a good tooth-brushing would be in order tonight. Having reached his allotted candy limit, Dean stared longingly at the remaining forbidden pile of treats.

John leaned over and whispered in Dean's ear, "Go on. Have another one, kiddo. I won't tell on you," he said with a wink.

Dean looked sorely tempted, as if fighting some great internal moral dilemma. "But Mommy said—"

"I know what your Mommy said," John paused and smirked, knowing Mary was just ten feet away and could hear everything they were saying, even over the sound of Sam splashing around in his soapy bath water. "Your mother is really okay with you having _three _pieces of candy. So she told you that you can have two pieces of candy, knowing I'm a big pushover and would let you have one more. So you get three pieces of candy and absolutely no more, like she always intended. You see, I know all her tricks," John glanced up to see Mary surreptitiously watching him as she rang out Sam's washcloth, with a quirked eyebrow and raised corner of her lip that clearly said, "That's what_ you _think_._"

"Wow," said Dean, sounding impressed. "Mommy's really smart."

"She sure is, buddy," said John, casting Mary a winning smile. "She knows how to keep her knuckle-dragging menfolk in line."

"And don't you forget it," said Mary, lifting Sam out of his plastic molded baby tub and wrapping him up in a big fluffy white towel to dry off. "I'm going upstairs and get Sammy ready for bed. John, can you make sure Dean puts all his candy away and brushes his teeth?"

"Sure thing, honey," said John, as Mary smiled at him, lifting up Sam's arm, holding his little chubby wrist and making him wave. "Sammy says goodnight!"

Dean leaped to his feet, running to his Mom's side. "Night, Sammy!" he said, as Mary lowered Sam so Dean could kiss his baby brother goodnight. Sam reached out his hands, clapping them to either side of Dean's face, their noses touching.

"G'night, Sammy," said John, appearing at Mary's side as well, running his hand over the baby's soft hair. "Sweet dreams."

John kissed Mary before she carried their squeaky-clean baby boy towards the staircase. John returned to the living room, watching as Dean grouped all the candies together with their fellows, before organizing them from his favorites to his least favorites, and John helped him count the candies out.

"So I know if I get more next year," Dean explained.

"Not so you know if anyone's been snitching your candy?" John smirked.

Dean shook his head slowly. "I guess...but I don't mind sharing _some _of my candy."

"That's cos you're such a nice kid, Dean-o. Now come on. You heard your mother. All the candy goes back in the bucket."

"Okay," said Dean reluctantly, looking like he could stare at his candy all night, or better yet, be up eating it all night. "But then it'll get all mixed up again..."

"Yeah...I guess it will," John frowned. He snapped his fingers and said, "I've got an idea." He went into the kitchen, grabbing a handful of plastic sandwich bags. "Here. You can keep them separated in these."

"Okay!" Dean said again, much more enthusiastically. John helped him separate the candy as grouped into bags. He then held the mouth of the jack-o-lantern candy bucket up to the edge of the coffee table as Dean slid the bags of candy into the bucket, with John catching any bags that escaped the edge, lobbing them back into the bucket.

"You can have more candy tomorrow _after_ breakfast," John promised, stowing the candy safely on top of the fridge and pushed back against the wall, out of reach where it wouldn't be a temptation for Dean to sneak any candy after lights out. "It'll be safe up here. In fact, I'm the only one who'll be able to reach it."

"And you won't eat my candy, right, Daddy?" said Dean.

"Right, buddy. I'm trying to cut back," John said, hand on his stomach. "Now come on, let's get you ready for bed."

"Okay, Daddy," said Dean brightly, smiling with all his teeth. John was slightly taken aback when Dean didn't so much as frown at the mention of bedtime or his nightly grooming rituals. John knew no kid liked brushing their teeth, but tonight Dean looked downright excited about the personal chore. "But you have to catch me first!"

Dean took off quick as a flash, his white socks skidding on the hardwood floor as he slid over to the staircase. John got his bearings and followed at Dean's heels, figuring the sugar rush from the candy had kicked in, and grateful that he was still a fairly young father and could keep up with Dean's energetic tomfoolery.

Dean bolted up the stairs on his hands and knees, scrambled onto the landing and took a sharp right towards his bedroom, laughing all the while.

"John?" Mary called from Sam's nursery as she heard the commotion down the hallway, "Are you getting Dean ready for bed?"

John pushed the door open and briefly poked his head into the nursery, where Mary was feeding Sam in his rocking chair. Sam had stirred at the sounds from outside his room, breaking away from his mother and turning his head to look at John with sleepy eyes. "I'm trying to, honey. Sorry—we'll be quieter," he said in a hushed voice.

Mary smiled endearingly and waved him away, knowing better than anyone that boys will be boys. John mostly closed the door again and padded down the hallway into Dean's room—where he saw no sign of his firstborn son. John put one hand on his hip and one on his chin, looking thoughtfully around the room in a good show of being befuddled over where Dean had disappeared to, despite the giveaway of the quiet snickering behind him. Then, in one swift movement, he whirled around and nabbed Dean from his hiding place behind the door. "Gotcha, you little rascal..."

Dean shrieked as John picked him up, carrying him over to his dresser. "Shhh, Dean. Your Mom's trying to get Sammy to go down for the night."

"Oh, right," said Dean, pursing his lips together guiltily. "Sorry."

"We've just gotta be a little quieter," said John, taking Dean's fuzzy footy pajamas with the airplanes out of his dresser and kneeling on the floor. Dean gripped his shoulder for balance as John helped him struggle out of his jeans and t-shirt and into his pajamas, and he couldn't help but notice that Dean was extra squirmy tonight. John zipped him up from his ankle to his collarbone, tossing the discarded clothing into the dirty laundry hamper.

"C'mon. Time to brush your teeth," said John, putting his hands on Dean's shoulders and steering him towards the door as he tried to run for his toy box. He walked with Dean to the bathroom.

"You gotta go pee, kiddo?" John checked. Dean shook his head. "Are you sure? You drank a lot of pop at dinner." Dean considered this fact before shaking his head again.

"Okay, then," said John, turning on the tap at the sink for no apparent reason and waited. Within seconds, the sound of running water had Dean dancing.

"Actually, I do hafta go," said Dean. John smirked knowingly, and turned off the tap. He helped Dean with his zipper again, and prepared Dean's toothbrush while he did his business. When John heard the toilet flush, he set Dean's red Power Rangers toothbrush on the counter, already with a pea-sized blob of blue bubblegum flavored toothpaste on it, ready to go.

"Hey, good job, Dean-o, your aim's improving," John congratulated his son, certain that Mary would be pleased, as well since she usually scrubbed the toilets. Dean got zipped back up and John put the plastic kid's step stool in front of the sink so Dean could wash his hands.

John lowered the lid on the toilet and Dean, knowing the drill, went over and sat on it. He fidgeted more than normal as he opened his mouth wide and tilted his head back to allow John to floss his teeth. "Hold still, kiddo," said Dean, who found it difficult to get in between Dean's molars with the boy bouncing in place, not to mention the discomfort when Dean's top incisors gnashed into his hand. It was a reminder to him of why he and Mary only let Dean have sugar this close to bedtime on special occasions.

John threw away the used spearmint floss as Dean hopped down from the toilet seat and climbed back onto his step stool by the sink, grabbing his toothbrush from the counter. John supervised as Dean brushed his teeth, making sure he didn't take any shortcuts.

"Be right back," said John, going to the master bathroom. He picked his green toothbrush out of its holder, squeezing a glob of Mary's favorite cinnamon toothpaste onto the head. He returned to the bathroom where Dean was, already rotating the bristles over his back molars. Dean raised his eyebrows questioningly at John, a line of foamy blue toothpaste dribbling down his chin; John didn't typically brush the same time he did, or in the "kid's bathroom."

"Thought it might keep me from raiding the fridge tonight," John joked by way of explanation, although it wasn't entirely untrue; he had found that his metabolism hadn't been nearly as kind toward any food indulgences since he had hit his thirties. This, coupled with long hours at the garage and coming home and settling into the content complacency of being a family man, had added a few unwanted pounds to his muscular frame. "Happy weight", his business partner, Mike, had called it. "All guys get it when they get a wife and settle down." Dean got his meaning, giggling as he reached out and poked John's belly. "No more midnight snacks, Daddy!"

"Very funny, kiddo. Only I can say that," John laughed in mock offense, pushing lightly on the side of Dean's head so he teetered to the side. Dean grinned mischievously at him through a mouth full of toothpaste and father and son took turns leaning over the sink to spit and rinse out their mouths.

Dean hopped down from his step and John reached down to affectionately ruffle Dean's hair—and found his fingers tangled in Dean's deceptively smooth-looking blonde locks. "Huh," John vocalized, working his hand out of the mess of Dean's hair and picking up a comb. "Did you have mice running through your hair or something, son?" said John, dragging the comb through Dean's hair to work out the mats and snarls.

"I don't think so..." Dean frowned, wincing and wiggled as John fought to tame his hair, yelping, "Ow!" half-heartedly and holding his head every now and then.

"Almost done," said John, working the comb through the last tangle of hair. When he was able to brush Dean's hair without meeting any more snags, John triumphantly set down the comb, thinking how proud Mary would be if she'd seen how he had managed to avoid excessive hair-pulling and had minimal complaints from Dean. "There." Dean shook his head, and his mop-top of hair swished side-to-side with the movement. "Better?"

"Better," Dean agreed.

"C'mon. Let's get you into bed and read a story," said John. He got Dean tucked into bed, turned on his nightlight and table lamp, sat on the edge of Dean's bed and opened up _Where the Wild Things Are, _Dean's pick of the night. Dean wiggled and squirmed the whole time he read. He kept crawling out from beneath his Wild West themed comforter, and John had to keep gently pushing him back down and reminding him it was time to settle down. Dean asked endless questions (most of which were completely unrelated to the story), still with that sugar-crazed look in his bright green eyes. As John neared the last few pages, it was clear to him that Dean was nowhere near ready to settle down for the night. This became especially obvious when Dean leaped out from under the covers again and began bouncing on the bed.

"Still not tired, Dean?" asked John mildly, giving up on the book and setting it on his nightstand.

"Nope!" said Dean, jumping higher. "I wanna play!"

John glanced at his watch. They were doing good on time tonight, were even settling down about fifteen minutes earlier than usual. The storm had caused them to rush home, giving them more time for bedtime rituals than they had anticipated. John decided that Dean had far too much energy right now to lie still and fall asleep. And he knew how to fix that.

John stood up, catching Dean around his middle in mid-jump, and threw the boy over his shoulder. He secured one arm around Dean's knees, the other on his back and fled the room with Dean laughing and kicking.

"John?" Mary appeared in the doorway of the nursery, with a very-much-awake Sam cradled against her shoulder, patting his back. "What're you doing?"

"Making sure Dean sleeps tonight," John responded as he passed her, making his way down the stairs to the living room, so the sound of them roughhousing wouldn't disturb the baby when Mary finally got him to go down for the night.

"Be careful with him," Mary called from the top of the stairs, catching his meaning. Mary was familiar of John's tactic of running Dean ragged when he was hyper before bed to get him to sleep, and it worked like a charm—she just usually preferred not to watch. As much as Mary loved to see her boys playing together, she always found herself anxiously watching between her fingers, afraid of disasters the like of which only a mother could dream up and a father would give little thought to; like Dean getting a dislocated shoulder from being swung around, cracking his head on the floor or ceiling, or in her wildest imagination—flying out the window. Luckily, John was cautious enough and the worst of the injuries inflicted from roughhousing had been a rug burn on Dean's knees and John throwing out his back after overdoing it.

John reached the couch, his four-year-old giggling crazily as he flipped him onto the cushions. John pushed the coffee table against the wall and scooped all of Sam and Dean's scattered toys into the toy box, clearing out a small wrestling arena. John thoroughly believed in the art of roughhousing: it taught kids the difference between playing and real aggression, taught them to think on their toes, how to anticipate and react to their opponent's next move, made kids resilient and had the added bonus of being a bonding experience, and John's favorite one at that.

And in Dean's case, roughhousing was also a recipe for a good night's sleep.

John straightened up and he and Dean squared off. John crouched down and clapped his hands together, and beckoning Dean forward. "Come on, little man. Show me what you got."

Dean beamed, launching himself off the couch and charging at his Dad. John caught Dean and swung him around with his body held rigidly like a human airplane with his arms out at his sides, lowering him up and down as he spun for the turbulence affect. As Dean screamed in delight, growing dizzy, John lifted Dean onto his shoulder with his legs dangling down over his back. He allowed Dean to tip backwards in what he briefly allowed Dean to believe was a free-fall—saw his eyes go wide as he caught him by the ankles, swinging him back and forth like a pendulum. Dean grinned at him from his upside down vantage point, arms hanging limply towards the floor.

John gently lowered Dean down, laying him on the floor by degrees. Dean held his breath in anticipation of more horseplay. John got down on his hands and knees, and began tickling Dean beneath his armpits and over his midriff. Dean laughed and screamed, trying to wriggle away in protest, although he loved every second of it. When John paused to see if Dean was in any real discomfort or in danger of wetting himself—a much bigger deal since the day when he switched to big boy underwear. Dean grinned at him again with his tongue between his teeth, a glutton for punishment. John laughed, resuming tickling the boy, who instantly shrieked with laughter.

When John let up, he fell on his back and Dean instantly dived on him. "Oomph!" Dean scrambled back up, climbed onto his chest, and poised himself for another leap. John lifted up his knees to protect the family jewels as Dean collided with his shins. John lifted his legs in the air, raising Dean up. Dean lurched forward, tumbling onto his chest, straddling him. John rolled over onto his side, tickling Dean again mercilessly. Dean laughed wildly, attempting to crawl away, but John caught him by the ankle and dragged him back, flipping him over and lifting him up, throwing Dean high in the air and catching him. "Again!" Dean cried, "Again, Daddy!"

John consented, bending his knees, thrusting his arms upward and sending Dean several feet up into the air, with enough restraint so he didn't hit his head on the ceiling. Dean came back to Earth and John caught him around the middle, spinning the boy around and dropping him on the couch again, pausing to catch his breath.

But Dean was raring for more, and had John barely a moment of rest before Dean threw himself on his back, wrapping his arms around John's neck. John grunted at the semi-unexpected collision. "Man down," he panted, falling forward on his hands and knees. Dean hung tight to him, sitting upright with his knees pressed tight against John's sides. Dean located the dog tags around John's neck, lifting them up from beneath the fabric of his t-shirt, holding them in his hands like reins. "Now you're a horsey, Daddy!"

"I guess I am, kiddo," said John, crawling along the floor with Dean on his back, his knees grateful they were on the carpet, not the hardwood floor. "You getting tired yet, kiddo?"

"Just a little," Dean admitted sheepishly.

"Then I am clearly not doing my job right," said John, who was already growing quite exhausted himself, despite his own "bedtime" being hours away. He bent his head down and Dean lurched forward with the movement, somersaulting as John flipped Dean head-over-heels onto the carpet. "C'mon," he said, lifting Dean to his feet. "Let's do some laps around the perimeter, soldier."

"Okay, Dad," said Dean brightly, jogging beside John in the small circular course between the stairs and front door, dining room, kitchen, living room, and downstairs bathroom. When John noticed Dean's steps becoming increasingly sluggish and weary, he slowed to a stop in the living room again, collapsing onto the recliner in exhaustion. "Tired now, Dean-o?"

"Yeah," said Dean, and he looked it as he clambered up onto the recliner beside John. It was clear his sugar rush had fizzled out, replaced by the crash that always followed. John put his arm around Dean as the boy crawled onto his lap and rested his head on his chest. He checked his watch. 7:45. Dean's sleep schedule had been slightly altered by the excitement of Halloween, but he should definitely be feeling the Sand Man working his magic by now. Sure enough, in the time it took John to check his watch, Dean had closed his eyes and shortly fell into a light sleep. Not wanting to disturb him, John elected to wait it out on the couch until Dean was fully conked-out before carrying him to bed. He inclined his head forward, lips brushing Dean's soft, once again messy hair, holding him more tightly and breathing in his sweet, familiar little boy scent. He absolutely loved being a Dad. Raising his two sons alongside his beautiful wife was the most fulfilling and rewarding endeavor he'd ever participated in.

John was equally wiped out from putting in a ten hour day at the garage and the exertion of playing with Dean. He was just beginning to nod off when he spotted Mary coming into the kitchen, and he was surprised to see that Sam was still perched on her hip.

"Sammy, what're you still doing up?" John asked sleepily.

"I don't think he feels too well," said Mary sympathetically, feeling her baby's forehead with the back of her hand before reaching into the cupboard for the thermometer, unbuttoning the top few buttons of Sam's sleeper and sticking the thermometer beneath his armpit. "He's been fussy. I think he might have a little fever..."

"Must've just started," John said, yawning widely. "He seemed fine earlier..."

The thermometer beeped and Mary removed it, frowning at the reading. "Nope. He's normal. 98.8."

"Well, it must be something else," said John, as Mary lifted baby Sam to her shoulder, where he promptly spit up. "...and there it is."

"That's the second time he's done that. His stomach must be unsettled..." Mary crossed to the adjoining living room, washcloth in hand. She lowered Sam down to John's level on the couch. "Here. Can you take him, too, John?"

"Sure," John lifted his elbow, making a welcoming pocket between his arm and chest for Sam to be cradled in, his legs overlapping on Dean's lap. "Got him."

"I'm going to go get changed. Don't worry; I think he's got it all out of his system now," Mary said, dabbing at the wet patch on her shoulder.

"Hopefully," John said, who had also experienced his fair share of being spat up on, peed on, sometimes even projectile vomited on—all the joys that went along with parenthood.

"I'll be right back," said Mary, turning and going upstairs to change into her pajamas and get ready for bed.

"Feeling better now, Sammy?" John asked, staring down at his youngest son. Sam looked up at the sound of his voice, smiling tiredly and reaching out to touch his face, bristling since his shave that morning. "I'll take that as a yes," he said, as the same little hand reached out and took hold of his thumb, wrapping his whole fist around it. John raised the baby in his arm up and kissed his soft cheek. Noticing how lethargic Sam seemed, he rocked him softly side-to-side. Sam must have found the movement soothing, because he slowly closed his eyes and was almost instantly lulled to sleep. Far from thinking he was a natural baby whisperer, John gave the credit to Mary for doing the legwork, not all of which was always present, as proven moments ago.

John smiled in satisfaction, holding both of his sleeping boys close. The warmth and contentment made his own breathing slow, his heart rate even out, and he felt his eyelids grow heavy. His head fell heavily back against the cushion of the couch, both his sons still cradled against his chest.

Mary came down the stairs in her pale blue nightgown, freezing in the doorway when she saw her boys asleep on the couch, admiring the three people she loved more than anything in the world: her kind, loving, hard-working husband who provided for them, treated her like a goddess, and was a wonderful, doting father to their children. Sammy and Dean...her baby boys. Mary adored being a mother. Dean was such a funny, bright, energetic young boy, and he was growing up so fast, and becoming so like his father. Sammy was still so young, but she could already tell he was a gentle soul, sweet and sensitive. Mary was sorely tempted to grab her Polaroid camera and take a picture, if she wasn't afraid of the flash waking them up. Instead, she tiptoed over to the couch, crawling up beside John and resting her head on his shoulder, her hand trailing down his arm to softly brush along Sam's downy hair, reaching out to stroke the back of Dean's hand, encompassing all three of them in her embrace.

Mary knew Sam should be in his crib and Dean in his bed for the night by now, but they looked so comfortable and completely at peace in her husband's arms that she didn't have the heart to move them. So she simply sat with her family, wishing they could just stay in this peaceful moment, to hold onto it forever—that things would never change, or at the very least that Sam and Dean could stay these ages awhile longer. They were both growing up so fast...

Outside the window, Mary looked up at the flash outside the window, briefly illuminating the living room, accompanied by a roar of thunder louder than anything they had heard that night. The storm had returned in full-force, and it seemed it was right over their home.

Dean and Sam both startled awake instantly. Dean's sleepy eyes were now wide and alert. Sam let out a frightened cry. A second round of thunder and lightning and feeling Sam and Dean shift against him caused John to blurrily open his eyes. "Mary..."

"Shh," said Mary soothingly, laying her head back on her husband's shoulder, reaching out to take Sam and Dean's hands, rubbing them reassuringly. Softly, she began to sing, "_Hey, Jude. Don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better..."_

Despite the storm raging outside, Sam and Dean were comforted by their father's strong arms and their mother's soft, beautiful voice, the combination of both easing them back to sleep.

"_Hey, Jude..." _Mary finished the last line of the song, letting the last note ring out. She tilted her head up to look at John, who was smiling. He loved it when she sang. He bowed his head down and kissed her gently. When the kiss broke, John rested his forehead against Mary's and whispered, "I love you."

"I love you, too," said Mary. John eased Sam into Mary's arms, freeing up his own arm to put around Mary's shoulders and draw her to his side, leaning their heads against each other, their children in their laps. Mary felt completely happy and contented, just to have her family so close together. She was living her dream. Her father had always told her a normal, happy (or "blissfully ignorant", as he had said) civilian existence was unattainable for a hunter. And although her father had passed on years ago and she missed him terribly, Mary was glad to have been able to prove him wrong. She was forever grateful to John for taking her away from hunting, allowing her to escape to this life of domestic bliss and successfully leave her past behind and forgotten, buried so John and her boys would never have to know about it. The anniversary of her ten year deal with the yellow-eyed demon who killed her parents and resurrected John had come and gone months ago with no consequence, and she was finally beginning to let her guard down.

Mary closed her eyes peacefully, listening to the storm raging outside and the soft breathing of her husband and sons, basking in the security of John's warm arm wrapped around her. For once in her life, she felt completely safe.

THE END

…

AN: I know, I know. I feel slightly evil for parts of this, having the Winchesters together and so happy, just two days before Mary dies :'( But I was really trying to get into Mary's head, trying to see how she had missed the signs the night she died, like the flickering lights in the hallway. I think she was probably on edge around May of that year, the anniversary of her 10 year deal, but was a bit distracted by having a baby and all that. Basically, I think spending all that time not hunting and living a civilian life caused Mary to get rusty, and stop watching for signs. We've seen it happen to other hunters who retired. I figured Mary knew deals have anniversaries where payment becomes due, and as 6 months had passed with no signs of the YED, she was in the clear. The demon never did say _what _exactly he was coming for, anyway.

Lots of foreshadowing here, too, signs of Azazel: lightning storms, crop failure, extreme temperatures and cattle mutilation. Again, either Mary didn't know the signs or she wasn't watching for them.

I had Dean be a fireman and a dalmatian because I thought it was cute, but also because I suppose I'm slightly twisted and like irony :/ Also, I saw in "Dark Side of the Moon" that Dean had a red fireman's helmet in his childhood bedroom.

Another note—I loved writing the exchanges and teasing between John and Dean, especially the wrestling scene! I added the lines about John putting on "happy weight" because first of all, it's a phenomenon I've heard of in real life and I noticed John looked heavier in the Pilot episode than he _ever _did in subsequent episodes (where he was a very physically active hunter) or even in real life (?), and decided to explain it away :)

I listened to "I Ain't Scared of Lightning" by Tom Mcrae on repeat while writing this. Check it out if you haven't heard it before! It's an awesome, emotional little song.

As always, thanks for reading—and please review! :)


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